


Honey Trap

by matchsticks_p (matchsticks)



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: M/M, Protective Connor, warning: coercive behaviour, warning: sleazy creep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 07:57:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2460737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchsticks/pseuds/matchsticks_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all his talk about not being a doormat, it was in Oliver's nature to be pliant. Amenable. Helpful. All Connor had to do was mention that the information they needed could possibly exonerate an innocent person, and Oliver was all for the plan. His only concern was that he didn't know how to seduce anyone. Connor reassured him that he only needed to be himself.</p><p>(Written to fulfill this prompt from someone who wishes to remain anonymous: "Connor uses Oliver to seduce someone for him, and then regrets it when the mark gets a little rough with his not-boyfriend.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey Trap

**Author's Note:**

> A note on triggers: there is no violence, sexual or otherwise, depicted in the following fic, but there is an implied threat of coercion and just general sleazy-guy-at-the-bar creepiness. Proceed in whatever fashion makes you feel safe.

Connor wonders just what it is about Professor Keating that makes all of them blurt out whatever she wants to hear, like eager servants desperate to please. 

Case in point, the way he's just said, "I know that place. It's a gay club."

Maybe it's her stare. Connor is ninety percent sure he hasn't seen her blink, ever. Not even once, in the whole time he's known her.

"I can pretend to hit on him, steal his phone when he's distracted, copy all his contacts."

Or maybe it's her shoes? She wears very severe shoes, the type of shoes that could conceivably drive someone to say things they don't even want to say. Michaela would understand what he's talking about.

"It's a nice idea, Mr. Walsh," Professor Keating intones, voice deader than the victim of the person trying to pin this murder on their client, "but he's seen you in court. He'll recognize you. He knows you're with me."

The 'he' in question is one Terrence Spielman, witness for the prosecutor and confidante of the person they all think actually did it. Connor believes without doubt, for once, that their client is innocent. Even for an amoral fuck like him, this belief raises the stakes. If there's any way to get at the evidence they suspect is in Spielman's phone, they should take it. 

"What about your gay friends? Don't you have people you can send to hit on him?" Asher asks.

"What, because I'm gay, I automatically know a bunch of gay people? Is this like the time you thought all black people must be related?"

Asher turns red, splutters, while Connor smirks. His mirth is short lived, however, when Professor Keating turns her unblinking eyes on him and asks, "Well, do you?"

As much as he likes to make fun of Wait-list for having no friends, the truth is that they all moved from out of town to attend Middleton. None of them have friends here, not really. Definitely not the kind of friends one could for ask this kind of favour.

"There might be one guy..." Connor says, because nobody is immune to Professor Keating's power.

Which is how Connor and Wes end up on the upper level of Spielman's gay bar of choice, watching from the balcony as Oliver accepts a drink from their mark.

Wes is here for moral support, or backup, or something. Wes is here because he isn't Michaela, who keeps hissing at Connor about how he can't use "his boyfriend" this way, or Laurel, who's got her hands full warding off Frank, or Asher, who's Asher. Connor is here just so he can get the information from Oliver as soon as he clones it, and so he can make sure everything goes smoothly. No other reason. 

He has to consciously loosen his grip on his beer bottle so he doesn't shatter it when Spielman leans in much too close to get Oliver his drink.

Oliver hadn't been too hard to convince. He never is. For all his hard talk about not being a doormat that does whatever Connor needs him to do, it's in his nature to be pliant. Amenable. Helpful. All Connor had to do was mention that the information they needed from the phone could possibly exonerate an innocent person, and Oliver was all for the plan. His only concern had been that he doesn’t know how to seduce anyone. Connor had reassured him that all he needs to do is be himself.

On the floor below them, lit up by the neon lights of the bar, Oliver awkwardly pushes his glasses up his nose only to have them slide down again because he keeps looking down. Connor can practically see Spielman licking his lips. Yeah, Connor called it right. Spielman's into the submissive ones, into that rush of power he feels lording over them. All Oliver needs to do is be himself because jackals like Spielman are drawn to sweet little fawns who'll waltz right into his jaws without even realizing there's any danger.

Connor can call it because he recognizes himself in Spielman.

The plan is for Oliver to draw him in close, close enough for it to not be suspicious if he reaches a hand into Spielman's jacket, and to take his phone and clone the SIM card as quickly as possible. It's not a great plan, as far as plans go, and Wes reminds him of this yet again.

"I'm sure he's amazing at all the IT stuff, but he isn't exactly a professional pickpocket, you know? Maybe we should just—"

"Just what? Call it off and go back to Professor Keating empty handed? Really? Is that really what you want to do?"

Wes sighs. No. Nobody ever wants to go back to Professor Keating empty handed. He takes a sip of his beer and Connor has a sudden irrational flash of hatred for how completely comfortable he looks, at a gay bar, where he should ostensibly feel at least a little uneasy. Wes doesn't even do a double take when a muscular man hits on him, just smiles and says no thank you without causing any hard feelings. Why is Wes so fucking _nice_? It's repulsive.

Meanwhile, Oliver is stammering something to Spielman, eyes glued to the floor and much too jumpy in his own skin to ever pull off a casual "no, thank you" like Wes. Not that he has that choice even if he could. He _has_ to accept Spielman's advances, because Connor asked him to. 

Connor grits his teeth and lets out a growl that can't be heard over the thumping music playing in the bar. He pushes away from the balcony railing and heads for the stairs.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Wes yells behind him, trying to pull him back by the shoulder. "He doesn’t have the phone yet. You're going to give us away."

Connor shrugs him off. "Like you said, he isn't a professional pickpocket. He's going to need a distraction or he'll get caught."

Wes sighs again and follows him down the stairs.

Spielman has one arm on either side of Oliver, boxing him in so that his back is to the bar and his chest is almost flush against Spielman's. Everything about Oliver's body language curls in on himself, but whatever he's saying is convincing enough to keep Spielman smiling. Spielman leans in for a kiss and Oliver turns his head slightly so that it brushes at the corner of his lips, more on his cheek than his mouth. Unsatisfied, Spielman grips his jaw with one hand to pull his face back toward him for a proper kiss.

Connor shoves a dancing couple out of his way to get there faster. 

Luckily, Oliver remembers the plan better than Connor does, because he lets Spielman manhandle him enough that his hands have a reason to slide beneath Spielman's jacket, and then he's fishing around in the inside pockets and Connor can tell he's got it. He has the phone.

Connor bumps into them, hard. Hard enough to spill their drinks, and hard enough for Spielman to jolt away from Oliver, for Oliver to be able to extract the phone without Spielman noticing at all. He mumbles a quick, insincere apology over his shoulder, rushing away before Spielman can get a look at his face.

Wes is, unfortunately, not so quick on his feet and Spielman ends up recognizing him instead, which is just as well because demanding to know why the hell Wes followed him here keeps him occupied while Oliver slips away under the pretense of going to the restroom to clean the spilled alcohol off his clothes.

Connor's waiting for him when he gets there.

He locks the door behind Oliver and doesn't say anything, just watches Oliver wet a paper towel with shaky hands, wiping at his sleeve with progressively increasing franticness. 

Finally, Connor murmurs, "It's just vodka. It's colourless. It won't even stain."

Despite how quiet Connor's voice is, Oliver jumps. He hiccups a breath and turns the tap on again to splash some water on his face. "Just give me a minute and I'll have all the information copied," he tells the sink. "We can put the phone back near him like it fell out, he won't even notice."

Connor wants to say it doesn't matter. He wants to say fuck the phone, fuck all of this, fuck Keating, fuck anyone who's ever taken advantage of Oliver, including himself. _Especially_ himself. But the truth is that it does matter; he wants what's on that phone, and not just because he believes their client is innocent. He at least owes it to Oliver not to lie.

"Forget about it for a second," he says instead. "Just take a second to breathe." He steps forward to draw Oliver into his arms, annoyed that he's too short to tuck Oliver's head under his chin. Oliver's still shaking.

"The longer we wait, the more chances he'll have to figure out that we took it," Oliver says, muffled by the fabric of Connor's shirt. 

Connor's reasonably sure they have a while until Wes' brand of wide-eyed charm runs out. "This is the last time," he says. "I'm never asking you to do anything for my boss, ever again."

"But it's what—it's what I do. What you need me for."

"I think we both know that most of the things I need you for are not fit for any professional discussion," Connor says, trying to bring things back to a level of lightness he can deal with.

Oliver doesn't reply, but he also doesn't pull away.

"I'm serious," Connor repeats, wanting Oliver to believe him. "Maybe not 'anything,' but nothing like this ever again. Just easy stuff you can do from the safety of your own laptop. And only if it's an emergency and I can't find any other way." Because this is untenable. He can't keep seeing Oliver, keep being with him, keep telling himself that he's different from men like Spielman, if he doesn't at least try to stop using him.

"Okay," Oliver says, before straightening and visibly putting himself back together. He starts working on the phone.   
He doesn't look convinced, but Connor will prove it to him. Maybe he'll prove it to the both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Endnote: You can send me prompts at [my tumblr](http://riseagainphoenix.tumblr.com/ask) if you'd like. Apologies in advance if I don't end up filling all (any??) of them, because I'm a mess.


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